I yank. The pliers scrape all the way down and punch me in the knee. I stare at the empty metal clamped in my hand, dazed. It didn’t work.
Of course it’s not going to be that easy. This is just the first of many. What am I going to do, tear out all of my teeth as they grow in? One by one?
I groan hysterically and press the back of my head against the wall. Maybe if I push out instead of pulling down, I can snap it off. There’s a small, strange sound deep in my throat, almost like the wheezing Grace noises I made while pinning Alex to the ground.
On three. One, two—
Fear the Lord and depart from evil.
The sound is like bones breaking. Like Trevor being crushed against the road. A bullet of pain shoots up my skull. Blood gushes from my mouth and cascades down my chin. My tooth skitters across the floor.
Holy shit. Holy shit. I tear handfuls of ancient toilet paper from the dispenser and jam them into my mouth. Blood pools in my throat. It soaks through the paper as quickly as I put it in my mouth, and I grab another handful, trying not to choke in pain when it snags on exposed nerves.
But something isn’t right.
My hands are numb. My mouth still feels too heavy, too full. In the dim light of the bathroom, I pull myself forward, groping across the floor. The tooth clatters away and comes to rest in the grout between two cracked tiles.
Oh.
Fear the wrath of the Lamb. Fear the wrath of the Lamb.
The tooth on the floor is small. And round. And not sharp at all.
In what world has my God ever been a benevolent one?
I tilt my head forward so I don’t choke on the blood the way I choked on Mom’s words, on the bruises Theo left on my wrists. The Grace-tooth is still in my mouth, taunting.
FEAR THE WRATH OF THE LAMB.
Seraph is here, and it’s inside me, and—just like my dysphoria holding my head underwater, demanding to be acknowledged before it drowned me—it’s only getting worse.
There’s nothing I can do.
Wives, remember: The way to a lasting marriage is faith and loyalty. You must have faith in your husband the way you have faith in God. When your husband turns from you, it is your duty to pray, Lord, how can I change?
—Sister Kimberly Jones, A Biblical Love
This is what I steal for Theo: two bottles of water, a near-empty jar of peanut butter, a can of tuna, a sleeve of stale crackers, and other little things nobody will notice. A pair of socks with a hole in the heel. A face mask hanging up to dry. All in a backpack with a broken strap.
I’m sickened with guilt just looking at the backpack. I’ve barely eaten anything since I got here, taking just enough to keep myself on my feet. This is just what I would have taken if I’d actually eaten. Half that, a quarter. I guess. Plus, we’re meeting the Vanguard in Wagner Commons tomorrow. Alex gave the news this morning. With fourteen ears, we’ll be getting enough food. Nobody will notice everything I’m shoving into the backpack. It’s fine.
I do some quick math: Nick only takes three people with him to the Vanguard—something about their sensitive egos, wanting to keep the numbers in their favor, whatever—which means I have a 33 percent chance of not getting picked to go. Those numbers don’t look good. I can’t hide the Grace-tooth from him, not from someone who knows what to look for. Not from someone I want to tell.
Not from someone I need to tell.
I checked the mirror as soon as the sun rose, and it confirmed my suspicions. I took out my actual canine with the pliers. My tooth, not the Grace-fang. I don’t know how I did it wrong, how Seraph made me do it wrong.
At least I can hide it for now. I tried talking to myself, and the words don’t come out too badly. But there’s more coming, and it hurts, and—